


Above All: Cherished

by Lilian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Emotional, First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Pet Names, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Sappy, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 03:44:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilian/pseuds/Lilian
Summary: Aziraphale starts with the hand-holding on the bus ride back to London. Crowley continues with a kiss. With some words. With some... falling apart?Spoiler: everything will be fine. they are in love. I'm not about to post heartbreaking stuff at two am, who do you think I am. :)





	Above All: Cherished

Even though Aziraphale doesn’t say he’ll come to Crowley’s for the night, he sits directly next to him on the bus. It’s one of those deeply uncomfortable seats no adult human body can properly fit into, which Crowley is proud to say he had no actual hand in designing (and took credit for it anyway), but maybe it’s not such a great design flow considering that the thigh of the angel settles against him with its comfortable warmth.

Crowley sneaks a glance at Aziraphale and finds the angel already watching him, a serious but soft expression on his face – eyes unguarded, quite like someone settling on a museum bench to look at their favourite art piece for however much time it takes until they are familiar with every tiny detail of it – and Crowley’s heart crawls up into his throat, but it’s somehow also trying to break out if its human-ribcage.

He cannot _not_ look back; he cannot miss a second of his expression.

Aziraphale raises his hand slowly, not breaking their eye-contact. There is a bit of fear and uncertainty in his gaze, but his hand lands steadily on top of Crowley’s.

And Crowley is there to meet him, just a second too slow out of astonishment, but turning his own hand upside and interlocking their fingers. He thinks he also smiles at Aziraphale, a real, only-slightly-overwhelmed, hopefully not demonic at all grin to show this is _good, it’s nice, it’s encouraged and accepted and above all, cherished_ , and then turns back towards the window to pretend there is something more interesting going on in the dark countryside outside.

He doesn’t even register their arrival in London, Aziraphale has to pull him by their slightly damp, sliding-on-each-other but still-not-letting-go palms.

Crowley lets them into his apartment, but only takes three steps ahead and waits there for the angel to close the door. They are still holding hands, and if they never, ever let go – Crowley is honestly fine with that.

But Aziraphale says, quietly in the pitch dark:

“My dear?”

And Crowley just cannot take it anymore. Quicker than a second, he whips around and reaches blindly for Aziraphale’s face with both hands, seeks out his lips with his own hungry mouth – halfway missing it first, adjusting himself closer, more properly just a second later. It would have barely lasted a second, almost a chaste, tiny taste if not for Aziraphale’s moan.

N ot a noise of “stop, you are going too fast for me”. A moan of “Crowley, finally”. Like when he takes the first bite of his dessert after eyeing it throughout the whole dinner.

So, Crowley kisses him again, even though he doesn’t know how to, not really. The movies couldn’t have prepared him for the realness of it. The connection with another body, a wet and soft and utterly addictive sensation. Aziraphale’s lips slide between his, a bit of pressure here, electricity swirling in the belly. Aziraphale’s barber deserves a month-long holiday to somewhere really nice, but the sounds the angel makes is the most exciting of all. 

Somehow the angel’s hands found their way to his neck, and now he’s getting a gentle, loving massage just under his ears.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale breathes, impossibly tender. He doesn’t say anything else, and Crowley doesn’t think there’s anything important he should break the silence with either. Not that he possibly could, he is physically unable to think, to draw in a breath, to produce sounds, let alone words. 

He leans back to kiss Aziraphale again, because he finally, apparently, can. They officially Don’t Care Anymore What Heaven or Hell Will Say. The angel melts into his arms like the appreciatively humming lovely bundle of joyous miracle he is. There is nowhere Crowley belonged more, either, and he’s been to a lot of places. 

He is almost getting tired of his heart trying to beat out of his chest – but it’s worth it because it’s Aziraphale’s soft sighs of pleasure that provoke that reaction in his earthly vessel.

“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley blushes so much he wonders if it would be less embarrassing just to combust completely. He cradles his face gently and Crowley suddenly wants to see his eyes, the human way, not just the weird mixture of the demon vision he’s got going plus the celestial sort of glowing Aziraphale started to produce right about the time they started kissing. 

“Can we… light? Angel?” 

Aziraphale was always so, so clever, plus considerate too. He puts his left hand up, and uses the other to cover Crowley’s eyes while he commands quietly ‘let there be light’. 

After a few seconds of giving his eyes time to adjust to the light, Crowley pulls Aziraphale’s hand down to kiss his palm softly. Their eye contact happens only after that. Aziraphale is pink, red-mouthed and lovely, looking at him with so much affection Crowley has to swallow. He even has to blink and scratch his head with his free hand (the other is held by Aziraphale. Blasphemous to even think of parting.) 

“Umm.” He says, very intelligently. “The thing is, angel…” 

Damn it. Aziraphale deserves a really spectacular declaration of never-ending devotion, not this incompetent fumbling. 

“I’ve been in love with you, for some time now.” Best not to go into detail how long it’s been, probably. “Yeah, whatever and however and whenever you want anything, or don’t want anything, I am more than willing to give you. Or not give you. Or make certain that you are absolutely, one hundred percent, totally and completely happy—” 

Why doesn’t Aziraphale interrupt this train wreck? Crowley risks a glance, obviously a fatal mistake, the angel has tears in his eyes and he’s looking at him with so much love Crowley never seen him direct at neither books nor food nor lovely wine nor sushi wait that’s a food too and just. Just. 

“I’m yours,” Crowley whispers, the confession leaving his mouth like something holy, something sacred, something utterly devastating. 

“You are mine,” Aziraphale echoes, like he’s the biggest miracle of all time, like he hasn’t been there when the Almighty revealed the Garden, like he hasn’t been there when the Milky Way was presented, like he cannot think of a lovelier thing when he’s seen all the wonders humans could dream up over a few millennia, like, like…

Crowley’s mouth wobbles before he can control it. His throat feels tight in an extremely uncomfortable way, and he is fairly sure he will cry if he so much as looks at Aziraphale. 

He is just a demon, not even a particularly good one at that. Undeserving of this much beaming light. Heavenly creature, heavenly in the best of way, the human and not the rotten way, the only way –

Aziraphale’s lovely plum fingers come into contact with his face, and Crowley discovers, with serious to mild panic that they brush away wetness from under his eyes. When did he lose the glasses? Or the ability to keep himself together? 

“I love you too, beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs against his mouth, and Crowley, just. 

Crowley breaks down sobbing. 

It’s so overwhelmingly much that his body blacks out almost completely. Like switching onto a backup generator, there is nothing more he’s able to process. There is just that tight, horrible, painful bundle of emotions he collected and kept at bay for about 6000 years breaking out of him wherever it can, through his tear-ducts, nose and mouth. 

He doesn’t know how long it lasts or how Aziraphale manages to keep him upright or whatever, but when he comes to awareness again, they are in his bed and he is half-lying on Aziraphale’s chest, propped up against him, in his arms with the angel’s hand ranking through his hair in a soothing rhythm. 

Crowley looks into his eyes and sighs at the deep love he sees shining back at him. He is so exhausted he can’t even make his lips to form a smile at him, but Aziraphale seems to understand from his gaze alone. 

“You may sleep, my dearest. I promise not to let you go.” 

He kisses Crowley on the forehead tenderly, then at Crowley’s wordless, motionless prompting kisses him on the mouth too. 

“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you. I love you.” 

If Crowley had the energy, he’d blush or shiver or at least advert his eyes. _Baby_. 

Instead, he just blinks at Aziraphale, wills the universe to be kind to him and lets himself fall asleep. 

*

He wakes to sunlight, and Aziraphale watching him with a sappy expression. 

“Hey,” he says, hoarsely, and his angel hands him a glass of water right away. 

Crowley drinks and falls back on the bed. Aziraphale has wrestled (or miracled) them under the covers sometime in the night, and they are facing each other, laying on their sides close enough to touch but far enough to be able to look at each other without going cross-eyed. 

“How are you?” Aziraphale asks gently, but even better, he raises a hand and starts stroking Crowley’s arm. The touching thing, that’s so lovely. Almost better than… 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Aziraphale’s smile is something else. 

“Of course, my darling. Please.” 

Oh, Crowley is absolutely not going to survive this, is he? 

He shuffles closer and deposits a slow, lingering kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. The angel is meeting him immediately, languid and so, so full of affection. They keep kissing until Crowley feels that breathing or no breathing, his heart is going to explode. Aziraphale is still rubbing his arm, and Crowley suddenly wants everything. More. 

Aziraphale must see the change on his face. 

“First,” he suggests quietly, “first we choose our faces wisely. Then, provided we survive, we’ll go on a proper date. The Ritz, maybe. Then… we can continue what we started here.” Oh, he is flushed but sounds so sure. Crowley loves him with all of himself. “Now, how does that sound to you, sweetest?” 

“Perfect.” Crowley breathes. Only… “And after that?” 

“If you don’t wish to, I am never letting you go.” 

“Eternity, then,” Crowley whispers, feeling finally at home. 

**Author's Note:**

> please scream your affection for these two lovely idiots at me in the comments, you have no idea how much it improves my day. <3


End file.
